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crusting on their necks and faces. Their eyes were rolled up so only the whites showed but they shuffled toward me as if they could still see.
    The next, of many, was a child, a naked baby boy, hardly able to toddle. His stomach was grossly distended. He trailed one hand along the temple wall for balance. Where his tiny fingers dragged the stone crumbled away.
    The door behind the statue was false sanctuary. For all I knew, it was locked and I didn’t want to be pounding on it when those questing hands touched me.
    Sheathing my longer sword and clenching my short one in my teeth, I turned to the statue and began to climb. My knee on the stone thigh, a quick slightly blasphemous grasp of firm marble breasts, and I was up, standing on smooth white shoulders. I hoped Artemis wouldn’t mind; as I said, she’s been known to be touchy about such things.
    The horrible rotating head was between my thighs. I gripped it about the ears with my knees, stopping the movement though I felt the unseen force resisting my strength, trying still to turn. “They’re coming for you, Thracian,” it said, laughing again. The voice echoed weirdly, coming from three mouths at once.
    I glanced down at the dead ones, milling about, moaning as they touched each other, ripping away putrid flesh. Several women, still pregnant with the infants that had killed them, were clawing at the base of the statue itself. I felt it rock as one took a stronger swipe at the pedestal. One way or another, it was coming down.
    With my sword now in one hand and my dagger in the other, I began to scissor away at the joining of wood and stone. The power that had called out the dead was centered here. Destroy it and, with luck, they’d fall quiet again.
    A good theory but my progress was slow. I tried not to look down a second time. I was already working as hard as I could. But a gurgle of happy laughter in that setting so surprised me that I couldn’t help but glance down.
    One of the women had snatched up the gray-skinned little boy and was cradling him to her bosom. She was rocking back and forth, crooning something that might have once been a lullaby. He was pressing a gentle hand to her sunken cheek, leaving no wounds. They had forgotten about everything else. Something infinitely sweet had survived not only the grave but even the dark power that animated their bodies.
    The head between my knees shuddered and ceased its struggle to turn. Shaking off my amazement, I struck a blow and chips began to fly from the statue instead of flakes. Though the eyes fluttered and the mouths gaped, the monstrosity was at least silent now.
    None of the other walking dead had paid any attention to the touching reunion. They continued to claw at the statue, though their strength seemed to have grown less.
    Hearing a hiss, I glanced down below me. One of the dead guards had dug his fingers deep into the statue’s backside and was attempting to pull himself up to me. I kicked him in the head and he tumbled down, knocking over both former king and comrade.
    My arms were aching and the sweat kept dripping into my eyes. The dead were causing the statue to totter but they had no idea of teamwork. The women scrabbled at the front, trying to reach me but unable to do more than dig at the plinth, the king and his men were doing better but unable to come at me more than one at a time. I couldn’t be sure that I was doing any more damage than they were. I could, however, feel confident that if I were to fall, my life would be done one way or another. They must not have had any such comfort.
    A new fear reinforced all the others. Would I die? Or would I lurch to my feet and wander, blind, grasping fingers destroying everything they touched? I started to hack with greater violence at the neck, grunting with every blow, trying to achieve some kind of proper sword position so that I could cut even more deeply. There wasn't really enough room to get a good swing going.
    More of the dead had come